Last Night's Scandal (The Dressmakers 5)

Was that what Herrick had noticed?

She stood and studied it for a time, but the lumpy soil told her nothing.

“No hope for it, then,” she said to herself. “I’ll have to do the sensible thing, and ask him.”

Gorewood

Some hours later

The mood in the village had changed overnight, Lisle found.

He and his valet entered shops and placed orders and no one pretended not to understand them.

As Olivia had said, word must have reached the village about the wee red-haired lass who’d faced a deranged French cook and his cleaver. By now they’d probably heard as well about how Olivia had made a ghost as well, and turned terror into laughter.

Well, she was a wonder, no doubt about that.

Lisle and Nichols entered the Crooked Crook. It was crowded, Lisle thought, for the time of day. But being the only public house in the village, it would be the main gossip exchange.

He walked to the bar and ordered a pint. The barkeeper didn’t act as though Lisle was speaking Greek or Chinese. He set the tankard on the counter.

“And a round for the company,” Lisle said.

That got their attention. He waited until everyone had been served. Then he spoke. He was used to speaking to crowds of strangers. That was how he recruited men to work on excavations. That was how he kept them at it. Money wasn’t always important to Egyptians, and they weren’t terribly eager to risk their lives for foreigners. The foreigners thought they were cowards. Lisle thought the Egyptians very sensible. And so he appealed to their good sense and made sure he gave them reason to trust him to look after them.

He wasn’t sure about Scots. But he knew they were brave to the point of insanity and could be loyal to the same degree—the Battle of Culloden came immediately to mind. Since, at the moment they outnumbered his forces by a mere twenty to two, he didn’t bother with tact, one language he’d never quite got the hang of.

“I’m looking for men to repair Gorewood Castle,” he said. “I’m looking for the sort of men who aren’t afraid of ‘ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggety beasties, and things that go bump in the night.’ This is the last time I shall ask in Gorewood. Nichols here has made a list of my requirements in the way of carpenters and masons and such. Those wishing to work may put their names on his list and plan to be at Gorewood at eight o’clock tomorrow morning, ready to start. If Nichols returns with insufficient names, I shall seek in the Highlands, where I’m told I can find real men.”

He drank off the contents of his tankard and walked out.

Roy watched him go, same as everyone else did. The room was dead quiet, everyone staring at the door the laird’s son had walked out of.

Then they looked at the skinny fellow at the bar, with his notebook and pencil.

Then Tam MacEvoy broke out in a great whoop, and someone else along with him, and then they was all doubled over, laughing like they never heard anything so funny in all their lives.

“Did you hear that?” said Tam, when he got his breath back.

“First the red-haired lass, now him,” said someone else.

“You ever heard the like?” someone asked Roy.

“No, I never did,” he said. And it was true he’d never heard of a lot of strong, healthy Scotsmen standing still for that kind of abuse from an Englishman—and this one not even the laird himself, which everyone knew was an idiot, but only his son. He looked at Jock, who looked even more confused than usual.

“We can’t stand for that, now, can we?” Tam said. “We’ll teach his lordship who the real men are.”

He marched up to the skinny servant, the one called Nichols.

“You,” he said.

The Nichols man didn’t turn a hair, stood there all calm and polite in that look-down-your-nose English way. “Yes, Mr. . . . ?

“The name’s Tam MacEvoy,” Tam said, chin jutting out. “You can sign me up right now. Tam MacEvoy, glazier.”

Another fellow elbowed up to the servant. “And me, Craig Archbald, bricklayer.”

“And me.”

Then they were all pushing and shoving, demanding to be signed up to work.

“Roy,” Jock whispered. “What’re we going to do?”

“We can’t sign up,” Roy said. Everyone in Gorewood knew they’d never done an honest day’s work in their lives. If they started now, people would get suspicious. “We’ve got to act like usual.”

“But—”

“Don’t worry. I’ve got an idea.”

Olivia saw little of Lisle until evening. After coming back from the village, he surveyed the courtyard until sunset. After that, he spent an hour with Herrick in the muniments room, then went to his own room.

Though she hadn’t seen it, she knew Lisle had created a study in the large window recess of his bedchamber, the counterpart of hers. He would have been working there until he began dressing for dinner.

Best not to think about his bedroom.

When, after dinner, they adjourned to the warm comforts of the great fireplace, Lisle repeated the brief, provocative speech he’d made in the Crooked Crook.

“And nobody threw anything at you?” Olivia said.

“Certainly not,” he said. “Two minutes after I left, they were laughing and cheering, according to Nichols, and fighting to sign up to work. He tells me they signed up their relatives as well, not wishing any kin to be deemed less brave than savage Highlanders—or less brave than a wee red-haired lass. We all know that you were the one who turned the tide.”

“But you knew how to take advantage of the situation,” she said. She was sorry she hadn’t been there. She’d have liked to be in the public house afterward as well, to hear the villagers. That must have been a treat.

“Well done, indeed,” said Lady Cooper. “I can hardly wait to see the burly Scotsmen climbing their ladders and heaving bricks about and such.”

“Not that we haven’t agreeable sights indoors

,” Lady Withcote said. She cast an admiring glance at Herrick, who came in carrying a tray with their drinks.

When he’d gone out again, Lady Cooper said, “Where on earth did you find him, Olivia?”

“He simply appeared,” she said, “like the genie in The Arabian Nights.”

“I’d like to rub his lamp,” said Lady Withcote.

“Millicent, let us offer a toast—to Olivia for procuring a fine specimen of a manservant.”

“To Olivia,” said Lady Withcote.

Lisle raised his glass. His grey gaze met Olivia’s, and she saw the silvery stars and the glowing moon, and everything flooded back, a hot rush of memories.

“To Olivia,” he said.

“And to Lisle,” said Lady Cooper. “For the brawny Scotsmen to come.”

“To Lisle,” said Lady Withcote.

“To Lisle,” said Olivia, and over the rim of her glass, she shot him a look full of hot meaning, too, in revenge.

“I thank you, ladies,” he said. “But now I must beg your indulgence. I’ve an army of workmen expected tomorrow, and I shall want all my wits. That means keeping country hours.” He apologized for being dull, said good night, and went up to his room.

They’d been over every inch of the castle during the last few years. They knew every passage and stairwell, every way in and out. Huddled in the dilapidated watch house, they watched the windows of the south tower.

That was where the women were.

Everyone in Gorewood knew who slept where and which maid belonged to whom and where the servants slept, and which of them sneaked out to the stables and which of the grooms was the most popular with the housemaids. After all, it was Gorewood’s castle, and what went on there was everybody’s business.

And so Jock and Roy waited for the windows of the south tower to go dark. Then, keeping to the shadows, they hurried to the broken basement door, climbed down the broken steps and made their way to one of the stairways leading up to the first floor.

Oooowwwoooeeeyowwwoooooooyowwwooooeeeewooyowooooooo.

Olivia sat bolt upright. “Good God!”

She heard soft footsteps. “Miss? What is that noise?”